


The Bitch of Bolton

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fem!Ramsay, Horrifying implications, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, On top of the more overt horrible things, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rawley Bolton is her own warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bitch of Bolton

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with some more disturbing Thramsay shit. There are...happier stories in my library.

Some women would weep to see that lovely smile broken. Some women were idiots.

Rawley Snow hefted the hammer in her hands and enjoyed the way he cried, when he wasn’t gurgling on his own blood, that was. _No more smiling for you, Lord Greyjoy._ There were more teeth on the floor than in his mouth now. They snapped like brittle bits of shell under her boots as she came nearer.

On the saltire, Theon Greyjoy cringed away from her, and that was the sweetest thing of all. The moment her victims—the peasants who whispered _bastard_ behind her back, the whores who dared look down on her, even her father’s own men who laughed at her—realized she wasn’t just a timid little bastard girl but a true heir of House Bolton. Truer by far than her idiot brother, who had learned too late that she was no demure flower, but a thorny bush more than capable of drawing blood.

She grabbed her newest victim’s hair to hold him still as she ran the head of her hammer over his mangled lips. He whimpered but couldn’t pull away. “Men like you make me sick,” she purred into his ear, using the same voice she’d used to seduce him. “Born with a proper lord father and lady mother, born with the right thing between your legs. And yet for all the world has bent over backwards to provide for you, you still manage to fuck up.”

“Please,” he sobbed. Bloody drool ran down the side of his face. She might have broken his nose, too. She had aimed a bit high with her hammer.

She twirled it between his fingers then let it fall. He flinched at the sound of it hitting the stone floor.

“We found Bran Stark.”

Theon Greyjoy blinked wearily. He was on the threshold of passing out from the pain. Poor boy. He had such a low tolerance, and they’d barely even gotten started. They’d have to work on that. For now, Rawley reached for the bucket of water she kept on hand for times such as these.

“That was a nasty trick you played, Lord Greyjoy. Trying to convince everyone you killed the Stark boys. Lucky I was there, so I know that you really only killed one, the youngest. The other was some poor miller boy you thought to pass off as Bran.”

Rawley had always been strong, due to her thick stature, more corded muscle than sleek, feminine curves. She wasn’t pretty to look at, she knew, not that it particularly bothered her. She wasn’t a flower, after all. With strong arms, she easily lifted the bucket filled to the brim with water and sloshed it on him. He jolted back with a sharp gasp.

“With us again?” she asked, setting the empty bucket aside. “Good. Now, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Funny thing. I could have sworn the older Stark boy was a cripple. The boy _we_ found was up and moving, even tried to run from us. As if _we_ were the ones to be afraid of. Claimed he wasn’t Bran Stark at all. Claimed he was _your_ squire. Now, what madness do you suppose…?”

“Wex…”

Rawley shrugged. “Well, guess I’ll just have to cripple him again before he becomes my lord husband. Can’t have people _questioning_ our marriage.”

“Can’t…you can’t…” He spat a sizeable glob of blood onto the floor at her feet, but it was difficult to tell if this was an open display of resistance or merely him trying now to drown in his own fluids. “You…bastard…slut…”

She struck him across the face. He just hung there limply, too stunned, too overcome with pain, to even respond properly. She’d _teach_ him how to respond properly.

“I’ll never understand you men,” she said, flexing her hand. He’d left his blood all over her knuckles. “You all _love_ your cocks, love playing with them, giving them to others. But the idea of someone else might like _receiving_ your cock…well, that’s dirty, isn’t it? Low. Humiliating.” She put a finger under his chin and lifted his head. “Did you know, _I_ have a cock, Lord Greyjoy?”

He was still reeling from her blow, so she let his head drop back onto his chest and went for her chest of toys.

“I’m quite proud of mine,” she continued, sifting around until she found what she was looking for. She smiled to see him become more alert when he saw what was in her hands. “I had it made special. Wood and, see, leather. I attach it around my waist, like a sword.” She giggled at her own little joke. “It does make me feel a little more powerful, whether I’m fucking men or women. But I must tell you, the men tend to cry louder than the women. Why do you suppose that is?”

He didn’t answer, possibly hadn’t even heard her. His eyes were watching the long bit of polished wood in her hands.

“I know why. It’s because you don’t really believe your cock can give pleasure, but you _know_ it can give pain. And that’s what fucking is to you, isn’t it? It’s pain, and hurting someone else.” She set the phallus aside for the moment and came back to his side at the saltire. “You think I don’t know what you’re all about, Greyjoy?” One hand was in his hair again, yanking his head back. Her other hand slid down his chest to his groin. “You don’t think every woman you’ve ever fucked, ever tried to fuck, hasn’t seen straight through you?” She squeezed his balls and he groaned, though not in pleasure the way he had back in Winterfell. “Did hurting them make you feel more powerful? Did it give you satisfaction to know you at least had more strength than a lowly woman?”

She licked at his exposed neck. The flesh prickled so prettily under her tongue.

“Did you like hurting me?”

“You…asked…”

_More. Harder. Use your teeth, Lord Greyjoy. Use your nails._

“It was so kind of you to object when I asked you to hurt me harder,” she giggled. Yes, he had enjoyed hurting her. And she’d enjoyed asking him to. “You are _lucky_ I enjoyed it, though. I was taught to enjoy pain from the time I was very young.” She remembered a time when she had been as soft and weak as this little lordling before her. She patted his cheek and watched his mouth open in a silent scream at the mere touch. Bits of broken teeth dangled from almost-empty sockets. “Reek taught me the finer points of both inflicting and receiving pain.”

“R-ree…?”

He didn’t understand. That was fine, for now. She had plenty of time to _make_ him understand.

“And now…” she said, stepping back. There was a whole tray of implements waiting at her pleasure. How far could she go before he finally did pass out? “ _I’m_ going to teach _you_.”


End file.
